


Survive

by Hesdeadjohn



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: David Bowie - Freeform, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Songfic
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-14
Updated: 2016-04-14
Packaged: 2018-06-02 05:47:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6553429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hesdeadjohn/pseuds/Hesdeadjohn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John missed Sherlock, every single second. His whole body ached. He missed the sheer presence of the detective, his silly moods, his experiments, he even missed his sulking.<br/>But there was nothing John could do. He only knew that he wouldn't give up, that he would keep on fighting and try to move on.<br/>He owed that to Sherlock.</p><p>Post-Reichenbach, Song fic to David Bowie's "Survive"</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=H66oeDW6JtQ  
> RIP Starman.

* * *

 

_Oh my, naked eyes_

_I should have kept you_

_I sould have tried_

_I should have been a wiser kind of guy_

_I miss you_

* * *

 

It had been nine days since Sherlock's funeral.

Nine days since John hasn't left the flat.

It had been fifteen days since the Fall.

Fifteen days since Sherlock was dead.

John still wasn't able to understand the extend of it. Of Course he knew what it meant when People died. He was a doctor for god's sake. But still, he hadn't lost so somebody close to him. Not until now, anyway.

He sat in his armchair in 221B and stared holes into the air. The tears had stopped falling long ago, now he was just empty.

Everything reminded him of Sherlock. The couch, the cushions, even the wallpaper. His eyes skipped to the desk, coverd in dozends of books and hundreds of papers, somewhere beneath Sherlock's laptop. All those cases that would be left unsolved. All those people to rely on Sherlock to help them. John couldn't even bare to think of them.

Next to the window stood the music stand, overflowing with sheet music, Bach, Beethoven, but also newer ones like Einaudi and Glass, and Sherlock's own works. John knew that Sherlock had composed a piece dedicated to him. It was calm and pieceful, Sherlock had played it whenever John was upset, or couldn't sleep because he was haunted by nightmares once again. Now John would never hear it again. He could of course let someone else play them, hell, he could try to learn an instrument himself, but it just wouldn't be the same, would it?

The violin was properly packed away in it's case, which lay next to the stand. Never again would those thin long fingers create a sound with it, never again would 221B be filled with violin sounds, neither at day nor night. The case would probably be sporting a thick layer of dust in no time, Mrs. Hudson was still trying to keep the flat presentable, and comfortable for John, but as soon as John would move out, he knew her dusting would get less. Not that he would mind, 221B without dust would be like London without Sherlock. But that's the thing. London was without Sherlock, and John was worried if the city could go on without the younger Holmes. Which was bullshit, he knew that, a city as big as London doesn't really care about one inhabitant less, but still, for John, Sherlock had been the definition of London. He had shown him so many places, and so many different places of the city, for John there simply was no London without Sherlock.

But he had to move on, he knew that, and so did Mycroft. He arranged a job at the clinic and a flat nearby for the upcoming month, John secretly being grateful to get away from 221B. A lot of people had offered him to stay with them, Mike, Greg, Molly, Harry, even Anderson. But he didn't want to be a burden for anyone. But the thought of going back to his army pension flat was dismissed even faster than it appeared. Moving back there would feel like starting all over again, like those two years never happened. But they did happen, and oh, how much had happened!

Chasing criminals through the middle of London had clearly changed John, in a good way. He had always been open, but in his two years with Sherlock, he was able to get a better understanding of the world. And Sherlock had helped him a lot more with his ary past than any therapist could have done in twenty years.

John was grateful. Grateful for getting shot, grateful for meeting Mike in the park, grateful for Mike to introduce him to the mad man. He was grateful for every single day of the past two years he had been with Sherlock Holmes.

But this was now history. There would never be chasing criminals around London again.

John sighed, he was tired. He plugged his headphones in and let his mind wash away with catching piano melodies.

_His phone started buzzing the moment he got out of the cab._

_"John stay where you are! Just do as I say, please!"_

_John did as Sherlock said._

_"Look up, to the roof top."_

_"God no." He could barely remember how to breath._

_"Sherlock no!" he screamed, but the other one couldn't hear him even though he was still on his mobile._

_"The papers were right all along, I invented Moriarty."_

_"No, Sherlock!"_

_"I'm a fake."_

_"I don't believe you." John knew he had to do something, had to say something for Sherlock to stay with him._

_"That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note?"_

_"Leave a note when?" Johns voice was trembing._

_"Goodbye John."_

_"NO!" But it was too late. The thin body fell of from the building, coat and scarf fluttering in the wind. Then he heard a thump._

_And he started running and screaming and crying all at once. But of course it was too late, he was always to late. His legs turned to jelly and he wasn't able to move. The ground absorbed him, John felt like he was drowning. Somehow, he reached the body. Everywhere was blood. The last thing he saw were those empty eyes, empty of life, empty of everything._

John woke screaming.

"SHERLOCK!" But of course it was too late. Always too late.

Sherlock was dead.

If only he had been a bit faster, if only he hadn't listened to him. Maybe Sherlock would still be alive. Maybe he would be sitting in the chair right in front of him now, sorting through his mind palace. Or he would play John's song, to soothe him.

John blamed himself for Sherlock's death. Deep inside he knew it wasn't his fault, that it was Moriarty's plan that had worked a bit too well. But still, there was this little voice inside his head that kept nagging him about it every damn second.

How often had he reflected on the past weeks to see where things had gone wrong, how often had he tried to figure out what he could have done differently. But he couldn't find anything, and that was probably the worst problem.

John missed Sherlock, every single second. His whole body ached. He missed the sheer presence of the detective, his silly moods, his experiments, he even missed his sulking.

But there was nothing John could do. He only knew that he wouldn't give up, that he would keep on fighting and try to move on.

He owed that to Sherlock.


	2. Two

* * *

_Give me wings_

_Give me space_

_Give me money for a change of face_

_Those noisy rooms and passion pants_

_I loved you_

* * *

It had been 42 days since the funeral.

48 days since Sherlock was dead.

John woke abruptly. His dream had been like none of the dreams he had since Sherlock's death.

It was already fading, adding to the pile of dreams that John wouldn't remember soon, so he tried to hold onto it. It had been a nice dream.

_He and Sherlock home in 221B, both comfy with cups of tea in their armchairs next to the fire place. John updating his blog, Sherlock rambling about a case they just solved. John was only waiting for the post-case crash which would inevitably come. Sherlock stretched in his armchair, sinking into it, his feet moving until they found John's. The slight touch left a tingling in his spine, and he slowly moved his foot up and down Sherlock's ankle. They stayed like this for a long time, John with his laptop on his legs, Sherlock barely keeping his eyes open, trying to fight the fatigue._

John smiled when he remembered. This had not only happened in his dream, they had spent several evenings in Baker Street this way. John knew that Sherlock had craved for a touch after a case, even a small one. And he was happy to provide him just that.

Thinking of the old times suddenly made his eyes fill up with tears. He didn't want to cry, not now, so he got up and got ready for work. He needed to get his mind off of those thoughts.

But it didn't work, his mind always crept back to the dream he had, no matter how hard he tried. Sherlock was always in the back of his mind, when he was talking with his colleagues, or helping patients, when he was out for a pint with Greg that evening. He couldn't do it, he was going mad. John needed to get away.

John started smoking, but it didn't calm him, so he stopped again.

He started to drink when he came home, but that only made things worse, so he quickly switched back to tea again.

One night, he was in the mood that normally made Sherlock play he violin for him, and he was desperate, so he called Mycroft.

"Holmes."

"How do you cope?"

"Good evening Dr. Watson, how are you?"

"What do you think?"

"I assume you are having troubles again, you wouldn't have called otherwise."

"I bloody well have 'troubles', Mycroft! Sherlock's dead for more than a month now, and still he's the only thing on my mind! How do you cope? I mean he was only my flatmate, but he was your brother!"

"Dr. Watson- John. I know you might see me as the heartless creature everybody believes me to be, but trust me, I am not. I truly mourn the loss of my little brother, but I simply have other ways of showing it. Or not showing it, if you want."

"How do you do it?"

"Do what exactly?"

"Don't let it get to you every second. I want that too."

"John, I fear we are just too different. I grew up learning not to lay my emotions open, always burrying them deep underneath since I was a toddler. And in my job today, any shown weakness could be my end. But you John, you are so much more. I'd even like to go that far and say that you are a better person than me because you can care so deeply for a person. I would never let myself go that far."

John didn't really know what to answer, so he said nothing.

"John, believe me. Things will change, and I'm fairly sure you will be able to survive until then. You'e lived through so much worse."

"If you think so."

"Yes, I do. But now, if you will excuse me, there are matters I have to take care of. Goodbye, John, have a pleasant evening."

"Bye Mycroft."

John didn't know what to make of that conversation. He had never heard the older Holmes speak that much about himself, but of course, it did make sense what he said. But instead of thinking more about it, he made tea and tried to enjoy it in his living room. The flat he moved into was nice, but it didn't quite feel like home, didn't feel like Baker Street.

Soon he felt his mind drifting back to afternoons he had spent with Sherlock in their seperate armchairs. He thought of the clients that sat on that simple chair opposite to them. He remembered how Sherlock had been full of energy when a new interesting case appeared, and John smiled at the memory. He allowed his thoughts to wander back to certain crime scenes. He remembered the curve of Sherlock's back when he had bent over a body, how his trousers had complimented his arse on the rare occasions when it wasn't covered by that coat of Sherlock.

_Heck, where did that come from?!_

John opened his eyes and felt that he was semi-erect, only by thinking about the figure of his dead friend.

He couldn't deny that this hasn't happened before, back when Sherlock was alive he often woke after a particularly detailed dream with a striking morning erection. But John always tried to ignore the feelings that came with it, partly because he wasn't sure why he had them at the first place. Guilt of course, but mostly pain and some sort of craving. He either had had a cold shower or quickly jerked himself off under the hot stream of water, and just tried to suppress the feelings and thoughts.

Now though, John knew exactly what those feelings had meant.

"I loved him." He put his head in his hands and ruffled his hair.

"Heck Sherlock, I loved you." 

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not a writer, and English isn't my first language, so we'll see how this'll work.  
> Not beta-proofed.


End file.
